


Kneel At The Altar Of Your Power

by Archer973



Series: Build The Castle On Our Passions [5]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, New Vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archer973/pseuds/Archer973
Summary: Bass was willing to lay down his life for his son to spare him from Gould's deathmatch. But Charlie isn't willing to let him go that easy, and tensions culminate in unexpected passion while on the road





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Alright guys, first note the change in rating please. If smut is not your jam, I suggest skipping the second chapter. If it is, cheers! I hope you guys enjoy!

**Chapter One**

The manacles snapped into place around Charlie's wrists, the chains tethering her to the wagon rattling as Gould's men fastened her ankles as well. In a way it was gratifying, not being underestimated, but in that moment Charlie would have rather they treated her like a poor, helpless girl so she could slit their throats and get on with kicking Duncan's ass.

“ _Charlotte, try not to get yourself killed, at least wait until you're on Miles' watch_.” Idiot. _She_ wasn't the one who had gotten nabbed on the exit, gotten nabbed during the _easiest damn part_ of the heist. Connor she might have understood, the boy wasn't exactly a big picture thinker, but Bass... his dumb ass should have known better.

When neither of them had shown at the rendezvous, she had known something had went wrong. Sneaking back to the edge of New Vegas had been easy and that's when she had heard that Gould had snagged them and about the dogfight.

Charlie tried to ignore how her heart clenched at the thought. A death match. Father against son. Gould really was a sick puppy. She seriously hoped that she would get the chance to stick a blade in him before all this was done. And Duncan.

Especially Duncan.

Charlie had known that she didn't have a lot of options, and she'd known that going to Duncan was probably a very, very bad idea, but it was the only one she had. So hoping that she could appeal to the warlord's greed and whatever part of her still cared about Bass, Charlie had gone to her. It honestly hadn't been much of a surprise that Duncan had taken her captive, but turning her over to Gould? That was just a bitch move.

Maybe it would have been better if Bass _had_ slept with her.

 _“If you're going to fuck a Monroe, Charlotte, don't be a coward. Fuck the one you actually want.”_ Bass's voice came back to her, low and tantalizing. She could still feel his hot, rough hands on her skin, still feel the hardness of him pressed between her legs as he showed her exactly what passion lingered behind those caressing looks.

No, it was good that Bass hadn't slept with Duncan. The bitch was still their best chance of getting out of here and it would be shame if Charlie had to kill her on principle. Bass on the other hand... Charlie was half-tempted to kill him herself, just for making her worry.

New Vegas rolled into view as Charlie contemplated that. Worry. She was worried about Bass. The man she had spent so long hating, who she had pulled the trigger on in this very town... and now she was worried about his safety.

She could blame it on Miles, she supposed. Miles, who for all his bluster and heartache over it, still loved Bass. Who needed him to be the monster Miles didn't want to be anymore, to watch his back and help him fight the Patriots.

Blame it on the drugs.

Blame it on the adrenaline.

Blame it on Miles.

The wagon drove through the gates of New Vegas and Charlie saw the cage. A monstrous construction of chain and wire, the cage seemed more suited for holding wild animals than people. Though, Charlie mused as they rolled by, her eyes fixed on the tall figure within, Sebastian Monroe wasn't exactly “people”.

He stood towards the back of the cage, shoulders back, head held high, watching as Charlie was taken by. Charlie knew Gould had taken this route on purpose, to let her see her companions caged, to let her see that he had won. And maybe as a sick form of torture to Bass, forcing him to watch as his “woman” was taken away, taken to be whored out for Gould's pleasure.

Charlie knew exactly what was waiting for her. It was no secret, what happened to girls who were caught, girls who were caged. This world ran on two things: sex and blood. She would supply the first, Bass and Connor the second.

Or at least that was Gould's plan.

Bass' eyes never left her as she rolled by. His face was blank, empty, but his eyes... Charlie thought she saw a hint of fear in them. But mostly she saw sadness. As Bass watched her go, Charlie could see all the years heavy on his shoulders, all the bodies and the blood that had chipped away the boy Miles had grown up with, had chipped away the General in his turn. Now there was only Bass, older, broken, with a piece of rebar in his hand as he taught his son how to kill him.

It wasn't a surprise, really. Charlie had seen the whip marks, had seen what Bass had suffered for his child. She had run her hands over them, wondering what kind of love could open the skin so brutally, could flay the strong back of a killer, and have him let it happen. But she understood, just as she always understood Bass. She had stepped in front of a gun for her brother, no hesitation. And now he was going to step into a sword for his son.

The fear churned in her gut once more, and it had nothing to do with the approaching trailers, with the violation that they held for her. She knew herself, knew her strengths and abilities. She would escape. She would not be raped. She would kill anyone who touched her, kill anyone who stood in her path.

And she would save him.

Again.

The dress they forced her into was hardly worthy of the name, all sheer black material that seemed like it would rip at the slightest movement. Charlie had been hopeful for a moment when she saw it, thinking that if she could pull the underwire out of the bust she could pick the lock, but Gould was clever. Padding and tight fabric was the only thing holding her into the indignity, and so Charlie was left with brute force as the only option for freeing herself.

It was convenient, really, that Gould had been so intent on “breaking her in”. If he had waited to send the man to her until _after_ the fight, they would have been in trouble. But he was cruel and vindictive and stupid, so Charlie wrapped the chain around the neck of the maggot who had come and listened to him choke with fierce joy.

His head made an excellent battering ram and soon Charlie was free. Unlocking herself from the now useless chain, Charlie heard the crowd roar. For a moment she could see it, Bass with a sword in his hand, fierce and bloody, his body on display for all them to caress with their sickening eyes, just as she had seen him before. She had thought him beautiful then, even with all her hatred burning inside her heart. But there would be no beauty now, no confident, loathing power as he fought his opponent. Instead he would be searching for a moment to make a mistake, a moment to let the sword drive through his gut, a moment to orphan his son so he did not have to live with the pain of being alone once more.

But she wasn't going to let that happen. She had saved his life before, and she would do it again. No one got to kill Sebastian Monroe but her, not even Sebastian Monroe.

She didn't bother to change, just threw her jacket on over her bare shoulders and stuffed the rest of her clothes in a bag. Gun shoved haphazardly into the jacket pocket, Charlie kicked the door of the trailer open and bolted into the night.

No one followed her. Gould hadn't even bothered to post guards. She would make him regret that with every drop of his blood spilling out into the sand.

The streets were almost deserted. Everyone was in the fighting tent. Charlie shoved her way inside, letting her hair hide her face as her eyes searched the crowd. She knew that Duncan had to be here, knew that the warlord was the only one with the firepower to kill Gould's men.

She saw a flash of steel and skin, but didn't look. Couldn't look. She had to find Duncan, had to find her before Gould got to her, before Bass cut his own throat on Connor's sword. Charlie continued to shove forwards, searching almost desperately. Then she saw not Duncan, but Gould's long-haired right hand man.

Working off the instincts of a girl raised in a world of raiders and militia, Charlie lunged forwards. She could see Duncan's men now, and the bitch herself. They were all distracted by the fight. They wouldn't be able to stop the shiv.

Desperation is the mother of strength. Charlie used all that her adrenaline had given her and _shoved_ the shiv into the gut of the unsuspecting man, feeling a quick flash of pleasure as she felt blood, hot and thick, spill across her hand. Duncan's men had whipped around at her movement, and now were watching the killer drop to the floor, gutted by his own knife. Charlie let him go, standing straight and tall and glaring at the woman who stood before her, eyes wide.

“I just saved your life, bitch,” Charlie spat, advancing on the warlord, all the fear that had been churning in her gut turning to rage now. “You owe me.” Duncan looked at her, and for the first time she saw Charlie, not as the new woman who had, in her mind, replaced her in Bass' life, but as she was. Hands covered in blood, blue eyes snapping with hot rage, clad in nothing but lingerie, and at the moment the most powerful person in the room.

Squaring her shoulders, Duncan nodded. “I'll handle Gould. You save the idiot from himself.”

Charlie didn't even bother to agree, just turned away and ran for the cage door. She heard Duncan calling Gould's name, then a shot going off. People started to scream, and the crowd streamed for the exit. Charlie shoved through them, her eyes on the cage.

Bass had let Connor pin him to on of the steel bars, his swordhand trapped and Connor's blade at his throat. At the sound of gunfire they had broken apart, looking around in confusion. Yanking her gun from her pocket, Charlie aimed at the lock and blew it away, freeing the chain. She kicked the door open and finally the two men inside looked at her, Connor with wonder and Bass with... almost acceptance. No joy, no gratitude for his life being spared, only a tired acknowledgment that today would not be the day he died.

“C'mon!” Charlie ordered them, gesturing towards their freedom, since neither of the idiots seemed to grasp the situation at hand. Connor was the first to move, running towards her, and Bass came after him, hand out, pushing his son away from the death pit, trusting Charlie to cover their backs as he ushered his “heir to the Republic” ahead like a frightened child.

The chaos of Gould's death made it easy for them to make their way to Duncan's camp. As the warlord called orders to her men, Charlie stepped behind a wagon and quickly divested herself of the blood-covered lingerie Gould had forced her into, gratefully slipping back into her worn jeans. She had just pulled her shirt back down over her torso when Bass rounded the corner.

For a moment they just looked at each other. Bass' lip was split and the skin along his cheek was puffy, the remnants of his fight during the heist. Charlie knew there had to be other bruises, though she had a sneaking suspicion that none of them were from Connor. His eyes were heavy, but the weight from the cage was gone. Charlie knew he was looking at her just the same as she was at him, cataloging injuries, cataloging damage.

“Are you hurt?” he finally asked, his voice low. Charlie shook her head, slipping on her jacket and settling her gun back in its usual place at the base of her spine.

“I killed him before he could get to me.” It was the answer to the question Bass hadn't wanted to ask, but that she had seen in his eyes. She heard Bass' breath catch and his shoulders went tight, her reassurance only reminding him that there had been something to fear.

“You never should have come back for me, Charlotte,” he growled, glaring at her, his blue eyes dark in the weak light of the flickering campfires. Charlie glared back, all the anger and worry she had been feeling all day boiling up inside of her.

Stepping forward, Charlie shoved Bass hard, forcing a startled breath of air out of him as he hit the wooden side of the wagon behind him. Seizing a fistful of his shirt, Charlie pinned him there, her face a hair's breadth from his.

“Listen to me, you self-centered, arrogant, self-destructive asshole,” she snarled, lips almost touching his as she spoke, blue eyes glowing with her rage. “Connor doesn't get to kill you. Patriots don't get to kill you. _You_ don't get to kill you. Only _I_ get to kill you. Do you hear me, Monroe? You _ever_ – ” she shoved him again and was gratified when he winced, his sore back thumping against the wagon “ – pull a stunt like that again, I will feed your intestines to wild dogs. Understand?” Bass looked her, his face empty. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Limbs practically shaking fury, and other emotions she refused to acknowledge, Charlie shoved away from him, turning to grab her bag. But she barely got half a step before a warm hand grabbed her arm and pulled her back around. Charlie turned, mouth open, ready to spill more of the anger Connor's sword at his throat had given rise to, but Bass didn't give her time to speak.

Instead he kissed her, almost chaste, but firm and sure. Charlie almost pulled away, her anger still hot in her blood. But he was real, solid and alive, his lips pressed to hers more in assurance than in passion. He did not press her, drawing back almost as quickly as he had advanced. Charlie looked at him, not chasing the kiss, but aware that his hand was still on her arm.

“I was worried too,” Bass murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost in the noise of the camp. Then he turned and strode away, marching towards where Duncan stood. Charlie remained rooted to the spot, thoughts swirling through her head. Part of her wanted to punch him. Another part wanted to slam him into the wagon and fuck him until he begged. A third wanted to curl up in his arms and kiss him until the world ended around them.

A fourth seriously considered doing all three.

Sighing, Charlie followed Bass over to where Duncan was standing, a fire blazing behind her and her men milling around at her side. She listened idly as Bass and Duncan bantered back and forth, paying attention only when Duncan announced the men would be coming with them.

“Five? We could use three times this many.” Charlie wanted to roll her eyes at Bass' words, and for once she agreed when Duncan glared at him. Charlie looked at the men. One she recognized, the black man who had been guarding Duncan's table when they first met, the one who had held his gun on her. The others were cut from a similar cloth, hard, fighting men that had been raised on battle and felt no qualms about killing. They were exactly what they needed, and she could tell by Bass' smile that he agreed.

“Alright, let's go,” he said, grinning at the men and turning away. Charlie made to follow, but the men didn't. Bass turned back around, frowning, and Charlie mimicked him. Duncan was watching them, smug as a cat that had just eaten the whole damn birdhouse.

“They don't take orders from you,” she told Bass, grinning at his confusion. Then her eyes slid over to Charlie, and the smugness turned to one of respect. “They take orders from her. She's the one I owe.”

It took everything in her not to gape at Duncan. She kept her face controlled, but she could see out of the corner of her eye that Bass was not having the same luck. His eyes were darting from Charlie to Duncan and back again, as if trying to find some kind of explanation to a puzzle he had thought already solved.

“You're not bad, kid,” Duncan said, her voice low and earnest, a small smile on her face as she looked at Charlie. “You're way better than he deserves.”

Charlie knew she should scoff, but in that moment she couldn't. Miles wasn't here, her mother wasn't here. There was no one to pretend for, except maybe Connor, but she could see him grinning out of the corner of her eye, highly amused by his father's upheaval. So instead Charlie gave Duncan a small smile, not quite an acknowledgment, but an agreement. Then she looked at the men, _her_ men, and couldn't stop the grin from blooming across her face.

“Come on then,” she said, a flash of almost giddiness swooping through her chest as the men immediately moved, splitting around the fire and walking towards her under her command.

Head held high, Charlie turned, her men at her back. Bass was still rooted to the spot, gaping like a fish. Connor was behind him, trying to conceal his grin under his hand and failing miserably. Charlie raised an eyebrow at Bass, smile turning wicked in her amusement. He stared at her, then looked at the men behind her, towering shadows armed to the teeth and ready to fight.

“It's fucking Charlie's Angels,” Bass said, almost in wonder, and Connor lost the fight with his laughter, snorting as he turned quickly away. Charlie didn't know what the hell that was supposed to mean (her men certainly didn't look like the angels old Father Cooper had described when she was growing up), so she ignored him and walked passed, her head high and a swagger in her hips.

It wasn't punching him or making him beg, but _damn_ this was good revenge.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Three days they had been on the road. Three days of listening to Charlie learn the merc's names, of watching her walk with them, talk with them, learn their strengths and weakness, find out who was the best fisherman, who had a nose for clean water, who knew all the edible plants in the area. Three days of watching her bear the weight of command as if it were nothing but air, a weight that had crushed far more seasoned warriors beneath it. Three days of seeing not Miles' niece, but General Matheson's legacy.

Three days of torture.

Bass watched her from his seat driving the wagon. She was walking ahead with Mack, the black man who seemed to be the leader of the bunch, who Bass could not help but call the Angels. Beside her companion's wide, muscled frame she looked almost delicate. But her crossbow was in her hand and her knife on her hip and her gun jammed into the back of her waistband, so her delicateness turned to deadly grace and Bass could not help the painful, scorching _yearning_ in his chest at the sight of her.

What would she have been, if Miles had been able to bring the whole family in, instead of just Rachel? Would she have still hated him? Or would she have loved her uncle just as she did now and become not a rebel, but a leader in the Militia?

 _Charlie, her slim, muscled body clad in the uniform of the his Militia, leaning against a desk, challenging and inviting at the same time. The blue of the uniform was the same as the blue of her eyes and her long golden hair matched the major's insignia upon her breast perfectly. Bass could almost hear her voice, giving him reports, telling him of her men, of their battles, all while leaning so causally on his desk. Miles was away. There was no one to disturb them. Her uniform was impeccable and her blue eyes teased him, hot with desire and_ daring _him to reach out and touch her, to lift her up onto his desk and bar the door, to wreck that perfect fucking uniform as he fucked –_

Bass wrenched himself violently away from the image, his chest seized so tight that for a moment he could not breathe. His heart screamed at him, demanding that impossible future, that impossible past. He could still taste her on his lips, from his mind and from the moment in Duncan's camp, when she looked at him with such fury while claiming his life, his death.

He had been numb before that, numb with the knowledge that he was going to die, numb with such a deep apathy to the thought that it almost concerned him. The only thing that had mattered was that Connor and Charlie get out alive. He had known Charlie would free herself, though the fear had still lingered as he watched her roll by, chained like an animal to that cart. When she had blown open the cage, freeing them...

She shouldn't have come back for him. As soon as he was taken, she should have run, as far and as fast as she could. He would make sure Connor would survive, she knew that. She should never have gone to Duncan, to try to barter for his life.

The rage when he had told her that... oh she was glorious. Gold and shadows, pinning him as blue flames danced in her eyes, claiming everything he was, his death, his life, lips dripping care and death threats with equal passion... how could he not kiss her? How could he not pull her to him and drink in the leaping vitality of her, alive and unharmed in front of him? In that moment she had ripped away all of his walls and left him raw, and he had run before she could see the truth of it in his eyes.

 _“You're way better than he deserves.”_ Oh how right Duncan was. He was a flawed man, the cracks in his soul filled by darkness and blood. He looked at her walking at the head of her Angels and all he could see was blue wool and pressed slacks, his symbol not burned into her wrist but set down by needle and ink, a mark of the power instead of conscription. Miles never would have left and he never would have fallen and she would have been there with them, powerful and confident, head held high as she stood by his side, ruling the kingdom they had built, a kingdom they would pass to their children...

“Hold up!” Her voice cut like a whip across his thoughts and Bass swam back to reality with difficulty, the dark, greedy part of his heart reluctant to let go of the impossible world his mind had built. He drew the wagon to a stop and the men walking around it drifted towards her, no ranks or precision, but still coming to listen to their leader's words.

“Take fifteen, rest, eat something,” Charlie told them, looking from face to face, then glancing up at Bass and Connor on the wagon. “We'll rest the horses, then push on for the second leg.”

Bass nodded, trying desperately not to let his swirling, clawing heart show in his eyes. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, then she turned to Mack and began asking him about the Angels' travel rations. Bass' chest tightened again and he knew that if he didn't get out of here, he was going to either fall to his knees at her feet or bend her over a log and fuck her until they both passed out.

“I'm going to scout,” he said abruptly, half-throwing the reins at Connor. Connor opened his mouth, about to argue, but Bass had already leapt down and disappeared off the side of the road into the thick press of the trees.

Charlie watched Bass leave the wagon from the corner of her eye as Mack gave her a rundown of her men's travel rations. Satisfied that they had enough to last them through the day, Charlie gave the large man a smile and turned away. She glanced at the woods again. Bass had disappeared into them as if wolves nipped at his heels and for a moment Charlie felt a flash of concern. He had been quite, these last few days, almost unnaturally so. At first she had put it down to him being pissed that Duncan had given the mercs to her instead of him, but now...

“Hey.” Connor's voice pulled her out of her thoughts. Charlie looked over her shoulder, suddenly realizing that her feet had begun to take her unconsciously in the same direction that Bass had gone. Connor seemed to realize it too, his eyes flicking from her to the woods and back again, a small smile starting on his face.

“Going after my dad?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Charlie's heart jumped with unease, but she kept her face cool and unconcerned, the very picture of apathy.

“Going out to hunt,” she replied, lifting her crossbow as proof. Connor just looked at her for a moment, then smiled, shaking his head.

“I'm the wrong Monroe, aren't I?” he asked ruefully, looking at her with those dark eyes that were so unlike his father's. Charlie's chest clenched and a spike of anxiety flashed through her.

“Excuse me?” she demanded, her voice dropping into ice as she turned back to face Connor head on, her shoulders tensing for a fight.

“Hey, I'm not judging,” Connor assured her, holding up his hands soothingly. “I mean, kissing me because you want to kiss him but can't, or won't... that's a little fucked up. But I get it. There's history there, obviously.” Charlie looked at him, a fight still boiling in her blood. But Connor's face was placid, his eyes only showing a hint of amusement, nothing more. Charlie realized suddenly that he wasn't much older than her. He had grown up in this world, a world where everything was shades of grey and the enemy of one day was the ally of the next. Judgment had no place in a world of survival, something the older adults, the ones who had grown up before the Blackout, seemed to have a hard time understanding.

“He's my uncle's best friend. My mother hates him. His Militia killed my father and brother. He's saved my life three times. I tried to kill him twice. I saved him twice. He came to fight for us, but I don't believe he'll stay.”

Charlie didn't know whether the words were a confession or a refutation. She didn't even know why she had said them. But maybe, just for a moment, she had remembered what it was like to have a friend, someone to tell your secrets to, someone who wouldn't judge or try to fix you, but who would just... listen.

“So, no baggage then,” Connor surmised, smiling slightly. Charlie almost wanted to laugh, or cry, or drink so much she passed out for two days. She didn't trust Connor. She knew he was reckless, undisciplined, power hungry, and insecure enough to make all the rest of that dangerous. But in that moment, she was glad he was there, if only as another person to laugh at the absurdity of the situation she had found herself in.

“None,” she agreed, and then gave him a small smile. Hoisting her crossbow, Charlie headed into the woods. She was going to find out what the hell was bothering Bass, even if she had to beat it out of him.

The woods were blessedly quiet, but the inside of Bass' head was not. Image after image flashed through his mind. Charlie glaring at him across the pool. Charlie ordering him not to shoot the bounty hunter. Charlie standing between him and Miles, between him and Rachel. Charlie leaning into him, the taste of her kiss still on his lips. Charlie pinned up against the wagon, legs splayed around his hips, hot center of her pressed against his dick... God, it was too much. Bass leaned against a tree, pressing his forehead against the rough bark, trying to force the memories away.

Charlie in front of the fire, her skin golden and warm, flush with power and pride as her Angels came to her. Charlie looking at him, challenging and taunting and so _fucking_ beautiful. Charlie's wrist, branded with his symbol. Charlie in blue, laid out across his desk, slacks pulled down and his cock inside her, the Militia uniform still hugging her form...

Bass' hand was on his cock before he could even register it. The desire inside him was almost _painful_. He needed some relief, needed to take the edge off the thoughts swimming in his head, the thoughts of Charlie as another General Matheson standing at his side, the thoughts of the life they could have had, if he had found her sooner.

Bass didn't even both to push down his pants, just unzipped them and wrapped a hand around the cock that was flush with the thought of her golden hair and blue eyes and long, strong legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked her. He set a punishing pace, just this side of painful, but that was how he felt, tortured by the thoughts of the life that he would have never had, but wanted so desperately.

His sword was in his hand before his mind even registered the crack of the branch, his body whipping around the face the threat with the instincts honed by decades of being at war. The threat looking at him from the trees today, however, was not one to his body, but to his heart.

It hadn't been hard for Charlie to track Bass through the trees. He had made no effort to hide his trail. But what she had not expected, as she rounded another tree, was to find him so soon, scarcely thirty feet from the road.

Her arrival had not been a silent one, for she had not been trying to sneak up on him. She was not surprised to see him whirl with his sword pointed in her direction. But what did surprise her was the loosened front of his pants and the hard, weeping cock that stuck out before him, pointed at her with just as much intent as his other sword.

Seeming to register it was her, Bass let out a breath, falling back against the tree he had been facing. His sword dropped to his side, but his cock still remained, thick and hard, framed by the zipper of his pants. Charlie looked at it, then up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“What's got you all hot and bothered?” she asked, her voice almost conversational, as if there was nothing weird about finding him with his cock in one hand and his sword in the other. In all honesty he was... striking, like this. Charlie remembered Aaron teaching her about ancient Greece and wondered for a moment if this is what Ares looked like, arrogant and male and deadly, a god of war caught in a moment of carnal pleasure that always seemed to follow so closely on the heels of death.

Bass looked at Charlie for a moment, suddenly tired. Tired of pretending, tired of staring at her and knowing he could not touch her, tired of lying to himself with the thought that he did not want to. He knew he was foolish to let his walls down, but he had already been stripped so raw by seeking death in New Vegas that one more wound would not really matter.

“You.” His voice was low and honest and he looked at her with heavy eyes. Charlie's eyes widened and she looked at him questioningly. “Command looks good on you, Charlotte.”

The confession was less ashamed and more... reverent. Bass had always admired Charlie's strength, and this new layer to it had only deepened his feelings for her, complex and tangled as they were. How could he not want the woman who had saved him, who had earned them the fighters they so desperately needed, who led those killers with an ease that only teased at the power he knew she carried within her? He was helpless against her and that terrifying thought only made him want her more.

Charlie studied Bass, wondering if there was a joke behind his words, a mockery waiting to come out. But he just watched her, making no move to cover himself, eyes as dark as a summer night. Charlie moved forwards, her feet falling into the hunter's prowl almost unconsciously. Bass didn't look away, didn't move, just leaned against the tree and let her come.

“Is that was gets you off, Monroe?” Charlie asked, stopping her approach when there was only inches between them, her head tipped back so she could look Bass in the eye. “Women with power?”

“ _You_ with power,” Bass replied, his voice low and his eyes heavy with desire as he looked down at her, making no move to touch her, letting her call the shots.

It should not have sent a spike of heat through her, hearing him say those words, but it did. Looking at him, Sebastian Monroe, killer and warrior and force behind a whole country once, leaned against a tree and letting her take the lead... the rush of power was heady. Just like when her men had come at her word, Charlie felt the flash of intoxicating, lightning edged joy. She was in control. She had the power.

So she wrapped her hand around Bass' cock.

Bass nearly knocked himself out, his head fell back so quickly against the tree. Her hand... god, her hand felt like heaven, small and warm and palms dusted with just enough callouses that he would never forget she held a knife in the same hand she now held his cock. She gripped him firmly, not too tight, but confident, sure of the knowledge that he wanted her and that she would give him the pleasure he was seeking.

“Look at me, Bass,” she ordered, her voice low and edged with a darkness Bass wanted to drink like fine wine. He opened his eyes and looked at her, this warrior goddess with her hand wrapped around his cock and blue eyes staring into his.

Never looking away, Charlie set a slow, purposeful pace, hand moving along his whole length and thumb swiping at the leaking head with every stroke. Bass had to lock his knees or else they would have given out. Charlie's eyes never wavered from his. He could do nothing but watch her as she stoked the fire in his groin, purposeful and powerful and determined. Her free hand slipped into his pants and curled around his balls, cradling them and sending new spikes of pleasure along Bass' nerves.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie...” Bass' eyes fluttered closed, the sensations rolling through his body were so intense.

“Bass, look at me.” Her voice was thick honey edged with steel and Bass couldn't refuse it, opening his eyes once more to look at the young woman in front of him. Charlie grinned, a hard baring of teeth that had everything to do with triumph and little to do with the softness of joy. She spend up her strokes, driving him almost mercilessly. Bass gasped, his legs shaking, the hand that was still on his sword tightening into a death grip. He knew his orgasm was coming, even though it had been an almost embarrassingly short time, but he was helpless against her, and she knew it.

“Charlie,” he whispered, half a warning, half a caress, then his balls tightened and white ropes of cum painted his shirt and Charlie's hand. She stroked him through his orgasm, eyes never leaving his. Bass felt almost naked before her gaze, never mind the fact that more of his skin was covered now then when she had seen him fight in New Vegas. But looking into her eyes as he came in her hand was a different kind of intimacy and Bass knew he would crave it for the rest of his life.

Charlie's hand stilled, not torturing his oversensitive cock, but she was still looking up at him, a smug grin spreading across her face. She could feel Bass starting to go soft in her hand, though even soft he was still impressive, thick and heavy in a way that made her ache in all the right places. She wondered for a moment if she could get him hard again, and this time putting him somewhere where all that length would be of use. It was a heady thought. Watching him come apart in her hands had been a rush. She wondered what he would look like beneath her, what he would feel like when she rode him to completion...

She was pulled from her thoughts when hot, rough hands suddenly seized her around the waist and pulled her forwards, turning her so that _she_ was now the one pressed up against the tree. Charlie's breath slipped out of her and as she looked up, she realized she had let her thoughts carry her too far, for she was not the only commander here, and Sebastian Monroe carried power within his very blood.

“My turn,” he growled, his body pressed against hers from chest to groin. Charlie looked into the heat of his eyes and felt her spine melt, turned liquid by the desire there. He didn't wait for an answer, just yanked open the zipper of her jeans and shoved them down, removing the last barrier between them.

Charlie could feel that he was still soft against her thigh, so she was not surprised when it was his fingers that entered her, making her gasp and arch against the tree. His fingers were thick and rough with callouses and god, she could _feel_ them, feel the marks of his swordsmanship rubbing inside her, caressing a spot that made her knees turn to water as he crooked his fingers. She had already been wet, turned on by the power of watching him fall apart in her hands, but now... she moaned, head thrown back, all her walls crumbling under his skillful touch.

“You are so beautiful, Charlie,” Bass murmured, resting his forehead against hers so that she had nowhere to look but his eyes. “So powerful. I can barely look at you, I want you so much.”

“Bass,” Charlie panted, arching into his touch, his fingers working diligently at that spot inside her, building a wave inside Charlie that she desperately needed let loose. “Please...” She didn't know what she was asking for, only that she wanted more. More of him, more of this, more of the woods far away from all the bullshit and death and turmoil waiting for them in Willoughby. She felt more free in this moment, pressed between Bass and the tree with Bass' fingers stroking inside her, then she had in years.

“I've got you, beautiful,” Bass promised, shifting his hand so that suddenly the heel of his palm was grinding against Charlie's clit, making her cry out. “Charlotte... beautiful, brave, _powerful_ Charlotte... I want to see you come.”

Charlie couldn't speak, the pleasure spilling through her stealing her words. All she could do was look into Bass' eyes, one hand coming up to bury in his hair while other grabbed onto his shoulder for support against her rapidly weakening knees. She ground against his hand, chasing the pleasure his fingers inside her brought, never once looking away from him. She would not close her eyes and pretend he was someone else. She would not let her fears drive her away from this perfect moment, from the feel of his body against hers and the unbridled passion in his eyes. Later there would be time for war and politics and morality. Right now she let Bass build the pleasure, riding the wave of it higher and higher until she could think of nothing but the feel of his fingers inside her and his beautiful blue eyes.

She came with his name ragged on her lips, hand on his shoulder digging in so tightly she knew he would be bruised tomorrow, eyes locked with his. Bass didn't look away, letting her fall apart in his arms and watching it with a dark hunger that made Charlie shiver in fluttering anticipation. She had felt him grow harder against her thigh as he worked her and even as she came, she knew she wanted more, wanted to feel all the thick length of him caressing the same spots his fingers had just been. She was drunk on pleasure and wanted nothing more than to shove him down and straddle him, sink onto his cock and finally give into all the hot, needing tension that had been humming between them for so long.

“Hey Bo – oh fuck, shit, sorry.”

Charlie had her gun out and aimed before Mack could even finish his sentence. Bass hadn't turned around, his body the only thing shielding their nakedness, but Charlie could feel his hand on the hilt of her knife, ready to turn and throw it if the interruption was one of an enemy.

“What is it, Mack?” Charlie asked, lowering her weapon and looking out at the merc from around Bass' shoulder, her voice calm. The muscled man was turned away, his dark skin not quite able to hide his blush.

“The, uh, the men were wanting to know if we were going to push on, or set up camp,” Mack answered, glancing at Charlie out of the corner of his eye, then quickly away again. Charlie didn't answer immediately, running the question through her head. Bass was silent, no more active than the tree she was leaned against, like he hoped by not speaking Mack wouldn't recognize Charlie's companion. As if there were many other six foot plus men with curly blond hair and the muscles of a fighter running around the woods for Charlie to get off with.

“How's everyone doing on water?” Charlie finally asked, re-holstering her gun behind her and trying to ignore how the movement made her body press into Bass'.

“At least half a canteen or more,” Mack replied, still looking studiously off into the woods, but some of his embarrassment had faded. Charlie, knowing what she did of Duncan, suspected this was not the first time he walked in on liaisons to receive orders.

“Then we'll push on,” Charlie decided, the logic of travel cooling the reckless abandon of her tryst with Bass against the tree. “If we walk until an hour after dark there's a river that we can restock and find good grazing for the horses. Tell the men to get ready. We'll be with you in a few moments.”

“Yes Boss,” Mack replied, turning and walking quickly back through the trees, only his haste showing that anything out of the usual had happened. Charlie watched him go, then turned her eyes back to Bass. He was studiously not looking at her, staring at the tree as if it held all the answers to the universe in its bark.

“If you'll excuse me,” Charlie said, pulling up her pants even as her voice was the cool politeness at home in any social event. “My men need me.” Pressing against him one last time, Charlie slid out from between him and the tree and began to saunter back through the trees. Bass didn't say anything, but as Charlie left, she heard his head hit the tree and a ragged curse slide from between his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry, but Mack was always going to interrupt them, I want them to simmer a little longer. Also, I was seriously disappointed that NO ONE in the show made a Charlie's Angels joke. Bass, I'm looking at you Batman. I hope you guys enjoyed, and I would love to hear your thoughts! Also, ten points to anyone who gets the Game of Thrones reference (Bronn has always been one of my favorites out of that trashfire). Cheers guys, and thank you for reading!


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